The Thin Line between Love and Obsession

"On the surface Don Quixote is a complex novel that is written in an ambiguous fashion; a fashion that many readers have found fault with, writing off the book to be a narrative of two idiots roaming the countryside in a completely random fashion, thereby eliminating the possibility of any meaningful whole. Though mostly false, it is quite understandable how many readers arrive at such a notion seeing the structure of the story is riddled with seemingly independent events and occurrences that often leave the reader oblivious to the nature of the book. The exploits of Quixote are impossible to predict, while the frequent deviation of the author into seemingly independent side stories baffle the reader to such an extent that the story becomes merely an account of two wonderers without any greater moral bearing or significance. Whereas the wonderers of Don Quixote spend their days within the secluded countryside of the Sierras..."

Then suddenly, in the midst of it all that thin line between love and obsession seemed to slowly fade off into oblivion as my mind brought back the fateful thought that marked my loneliness, my destitution. Like a ray of light sent directly from the sun itself, her presence made its way within my mind, causing me to abandon all care for the superficial paper that would act as a testament to the mundane tasks that marked my existence. Her face, her beauty, suddenly my mind could focus upon no other as my existence immediately took a backseat to the mere thought of her. Papers, exams, responsibilities - what were responsibilities if they did not involve her? What was anything if it didn’t involve her? What was the purpose of existence if it didn't involve her? Her hair, her eyes, her picturesque skin tone all conspired together to lull me off towards distant fantasies so far removed from the present reality of isolation.

"I love you. I want to love you. I need you." though the words just didn’t seem to capture the moment, they didn’t seem to stress the intense admiration for the object that now occupied my hopeless thoughts. "I want nothing more than your happiness; I want nothing more than to dry your tears of pain and present you with everything that I have" though that too seemed quite superficial as it had been state before, and done a thousand times over through the eons by such desperate men who thought they had as much love and admiration for a woman as I.

While my heart longed for the appropriate words, the beautifully haunting images of her eyes seem to tranquil my worries, ease my sorrows though all that remained of them now where the distant memories of a time long past, a time unbearably long. "The most beautiful of eyes" I would recant in a desperate attempt to conjure up more than a mere mental image of them, "...and her hair, her face, her countenance " I would speak out as if words had the power to create images, to ease the sorrow, or to pass the time.

…AlL This While the Paper Lay UnToucheD.